Saga

Life is a story,
A play,
Directed and starred in by you,
It’s a monumental undertaking,
For which tickets are not sold but found,

So how your saga plays out,
To which heroes you draw upon,
The friends and allies you choose,
The pikes and standards that shall comprise your battle line,
It’s purely up to you,

Which villains you face,
Everests scaled and agonies weathered,
The trials you come to contend with,
The high octane action scenes you orchestrate,
It’s down to your personal plot,

All tales end,
That is the directive of chronology after all,
But rare is the yarn that is remembered,
So make it memorable,
Make it a saga for the ages.

Soul Artistry

What is a soul but a piece of artwork?
A brand new canvas on storks feather,
A blank slate brought into the world,
Still mewling for mothers milk,
Aching for a brushstroke of identity,
Of purpose,

Your sires gave you a pencil outline,
A blueprint to be sculpted by your hand,
A grey spook calling for some colour,
Though colour will not come freely,
Indeed the world has a temperamental palette,
It is a chaotic studio,

The soul shall become a kaleidoscope of glee and dolor both,
Pigments from every page of your story,
Some colours are bestowed by embraces and kisses,
Some strokes will be with razorblades and glass,
Chroma from every pleasure and ache,
Art is pain as they say,

These brushstrokes shall form a human soul,
Storied yet chafed,
A picturesque identity with tales to tell,
But by the end the soul is a tapestry,
Aged and cracked in its veneer,
A masterpiece to be planted in the cold earth.

Life Ain’t A Movie

Life ain’t no movie kid,
That’s what an old man once told me,
That silver screen don’t care about you,
You’re just existing like the rest of us maggots,
His grizzled lips chastised,
No red carpets are waiting for you,
Not a single accolade,

You’re no action hero,
Take off those silly shades,
And save the petty bravado,
There are no days to save or dragons to slay,
Damsels don’t need no champion,
This ain’t anything like the movies boy,
You’ll pass away with not even a credit,

The loathing in the old mans eyes grew heated,
We ain’t no all-star cast,
We’re just nobodies and hacks,
There’s no adept director guiding us,
No expertly crafted romance and plot,
Just a slow treadmill of life,
Steadily trudging towards a void with no acclaim,

His words trailed off,
Head in hands,
The old man wept.

I’m Sentimental

This thing brings back memories,
A reliquary for a piece of my soul,
I grasp it close to my chest,
And take a jaunt down a familiar lane,
Both greet me as warm friends,
Happier times in golden years,

I need not describe this object,
For it is different for each of us,
A parental heirloom or gift from a personage departed,
But regardless of its somatic form,
The pure magic of sentimentality is at its core,
An ember of the past,

And it is true the past can be a scar,
Maybe even still riddled with maggots,
A twinge in the gut,
But this object can be as a lense,
Seeing past the memorial blockade that plagues you,
And perceiving the happy images of your life.

A Jagged Road

Life is a long dusty road,
We all know it in our being,
It is a foregone conclusion,
Built to test and vex,
Winding and windswept,
But it’s a road of jagged nails,
Bent and mismatched by travelers before you,
Karmic spiderwebs and societal roadblocks,

We walk it in agony,
Our boots split and feet skewered,
Each step forcing out more moans of pain,
Yet we march on,
With a pace set by our heartbeats,
Ashen-faced yet galvanized,
This serrated path cannot stop us though,
Nothing can stop us,

The end of this road is a cruel joke to some,
Our reward for our torment,
I fear there is naught but a red sun,
And a doting incinerator at the end,
Yet we march on,
Life trundles on,
Nails cannot break our spirits.

Work Is Life

Such childhood dreams I remember,
Of artwork and vividity,
Smiles were the way,
But then the conveyer belt fired up,
Careening me through a decided life,

It appears to this dreary soul,
That a lifes worth,
Such as it is,
Is merely based upon ones employment,
Dollar and stirling signs,

To contribute is just of course,
But life is not purely about what you can give,
In terms of finance,
We should follow Euphrosyne,
Not remain serfs to Plutus,

You are what you earn,
Does a bad back,
And a full pension,
Mean a life fulfilled?
Should respect be dependent on vocation?

We live to work,
And work to live,
But what about the end?
Will I too have to build my coffin?
Dig my own grave?

The Pier

Life is a rusty pier,
Ruined by the eons,
With a meat grinder at the end,
A slaughterhouse on the river styx,
Bladed rollers slavering for gore,
Put there by a deific butcher,
The railings are strewn with warnings,
Attempting to mitigate our doom,
Yet they seem to be in languages,
Unknown to us,
Tongues of hope and diligence,

The wave below mock us,
Hissing jeers,
And throwing insults of mist,
The sea knows all as they say,
We’re given birth at the beginning,
In blood and pain,
Tagged with an expiration date,
Only to traverse this pier,
Towards further agony,
Further despair,
Meat for the industrial hunger,

More meat,
And more,
Ad infinitum.

Grim Morning

So I awake to the pain of the sun,
No reaper this time,
Not this time,
Another day,
Another dud,
Sleep was death without the commitment,
But I’m a dedicated soul,

So lets rise from this silk crypt,
The corpse rebels,
But enough straining gets it going,
Disquiet at the breakfast table,
A smoke or three,
Some whisky in my cornflakes,
The sun keeps burning,

Lets see what jokes god can pull today,
Daylight is oppressive now,
Longing for lightning or comet,
To the salt mine,
Got to win that cheese to prolong the punishment,
Hip flask break time,
Turn the spine and arms to putty,

Longing for my noncommittal death,
Yearning for my mausoleum,
Both tonight and at the finale.

Nihilism

Let me die,
Bleed out or succumb to plague,
Do not mourn for me,
Scatter me and my memories to obscurity.

Forgive me if you must,
But certainly forget me,
Reduce me to naught but ash,
Do not start a tears life in my stead.

I shall not mourn the passing of this world,
It is and was nothing to me.

Life is a Chimera

I am a monster,
My life is a monster,
It’s an abomination,
A terrible abhorrent thing,
Crafted by unseen hands.

It’s made up of countless parts,
Taken and pried from all over,
Stolen and dug up,
Created and fashioned,
Built and summoned.

The skin is scaly and furry both,
Parts of this beast are grim,
While others are joyful,
Run your hand across its form,
And you will feel all of lifes challenges and opportunities.

There are fangs of bittersweet love,
Talons of rage unyielding,
Tentacles of greed,
Reptilian eyes of malicious intent,
A forked tongue of deceit.

Soft fur of contentment,
Muscles of physical potential,
A mane of experience,
A pulsing heart of childhood memories,
A sirens voice.

Like a puzzle of mismatched pieces,
Forced together,
A chimera,
A beast of many elements,
A creature built by each of us.

My life is a creature,
All of our lives are creatures.